Boneless

the notes pour me, boneless,
between the sheets
and I flick the light off,

sleep has become holy.
dreams stay just out of sight
and the slumber of the church bell
that has not been rung in years
is absolute.

brittle, teenage slang
floats through the night
and puts fear into the great,
conservative houses
who are most perfect at being still.

I set no alarm.

the white of hunting lights
from tennis courts
keeps part of the town awake
and the moon slinks away,
still unable to cough up
armstrong’s footprints

so I lie on my back, breathing
but not counting as each note
sinks me into the mattress
carefully,
like a countersunk man.